Morhault's Fall
by DezoPenguin
Summary: The story of Sir Morhault's fall from the Lion Knights. Entrusted with an escort mission vital to the people of Tamur, he is faced with a decision between ideals and practical reality. A Crimson Hope side story.
1. Chapter 1

Snow drifted lazily down from the darkening sky as Sir Morhault and his squire Oren rode beneath the raised portcullis of the gatehouse and into the inner courtyard of Tamur Mansion. The place reminded him of the mansion of the Governor of Meribia, half the world away; although the name suggested merely a palatial home it was really a fortified keep within the city walls.

Grooms scurried forward to take the horses' reins as the two riders dismounted. The winter air had a bite to it, and Morhault was already looking forward to getting inside the mansion and letting a warm fire drain the chill from his bones. He and Oren had pushed hard for several days to reach Tamur, and hoped that despite the urgency of their journey there would be time to relax before taking up the duty that had brought them.

An elderly man in neat doublet and hose greeted Morhault as the porter admitted the knight and squire to the building.

"Good evening, Sir Morhault. I welcome you and your squire to Tamur Mansion in the name of Mayor Barleth."

"Thank you."

A servant came forward, and Morhault removed his hooded gray wool cloak and handed it over to be dried, giving the steward his first good look at the knight. Morhault was a young man, at twenty-six only six years a knight, and his broad-shouldered, muscular build suggested that he'd be dangerous in a fight. His wavy black hair brushed the nape of his neck and his handsome, aquiline features attracted many a second glance from the opposite sex. The white leather breeches and gloves he wore with the crimson tabard covering his mail shirt, and his squire's white shirt and breeches and red sleeveless overtunic suggested uniforms, which they were. The Lion Knights of Ilan mandated the costume to emphasize that they were one unified group rather than a collection of individuals. For the same reason the shield slung on Morhault's saddle bore no personal crest, only the golden lion's head on a red field that was the order's badge.

"His Honor the Mayor would like to welcome you personally before you speak with Sir Feldon, your colleague."

"I'm at his Honor's disposal. Oren--"

"I know. Unpack."

"You're learning. Here, take this with you." Morhault unhooked the heavy broadsword from his belt and handed it to the squire. In the present nervous situation, it didn't seem polite to barge in on his host carrying a blade.

The gray-haired steward led Morhault to a luxuriously outfitted study. The walls were hung with tapestries, the stone floor covered with an expensive carpet, and a fire blazed in a great hearth taller than the knight. A bearded man richly dressed in dark blue velvet, wearing several rings in addition to the golden chain bearing the seal of his office, sat at the head of an antique table.

"Sir Morhault, come in!" called Roland Barleth, Mayor of Tamur. "I've heard good things about you."

"Thank you. I'm surprised that you were expecting me."

"No mystery there. Your chapterhouse sent a message by carrier bird to Sir Feldon telling which knight they dispatched."

"Ah, I should have thought of that myself."

Morhault studied the man before him, not wanting to seem too obvious about it yet certain the Mayor's dark eyes perceived everything before him.

"Do you know why I asked to see you?" Mayor Barleth asked.

Morhault shook his head.

"It's because I wanted to see you up close, one-to-one. I've gotten to know Sir Feldon over these past few weeks and pretty well know how I stand with him. I don't know you, and I'll be entrusting my only child to your keeping."

The Lion Knight's eyes flicked to a shadowy corner of the long room near the hearth. The slender figure of a girl in a green gown was not precisely hidden, but she held herself quietly apart so that she became more like part of the furniture than an individual.

"That's right," Mayor Barleth verified. "Come, Marysann, and greet Sir Morhault."

The girl stepped forward, her honey-blond hair catching the firelight and shimmering warmly. Her face was neither friendly nor hostile, showing no emotion. It wasn't the effect of an ice maiden, though, but almost as if she wasn't really there--not _cold_, just so retiring that nothing could touch her. Small surprise, Morhault thought, that she had seemed to vanish in her corner.

The lady curtsied politely. "Well met, Sir Morhault, and welcome to Tamur," she said in a pleasant voice.

"Lady Marysann," he replied with a bow. He could feel the Mayor's eyes on him, and wondered what was being left unsaid. "A pleasure," he added. Some of his fellow knights would have had silver-tongued phrases fit to shame any minstrel, but Morhault wasn't particularly skilled at conversation for conversation's sake.

"Her safety is in your hands, Sir Morhault," the Mayor repeated. "Your duty is the most important thing in the world to me."

"I'm not a father, but I can appreciate your fears."

"A father...good, you understand, then." He smiled at Morhault.

"Father, may I be excused?" Marysann asked abruptly. A shadow seemed to darken Mayor Barleth's face, but he nodded curtly.

"You may."

She walked smoothly towards the door, gliding over the brightly patterned carpet. The heavy portal opened before she got there, and Oren burst in.

"Sir Morhault, everything's in our chamber and--" He broke off as he came face-to-face with the girl and could only stare, tongue-tied. She swept past him without so much as a glance and was gone.

"Was there something?" Morhault asked, regarding his squire with one raised eyebrow. The sandy-haired boy looked from his knight's somewhat mocking expression to the Mayor's flat, hard gaze and paled.

"I'm interrupting something, aren't I?" he asked, shamefaced.

"Good guess. The damage has been done, though, so you might as well give me your message."

"Oh, er, yes. Sir Feldon said to tell you that he's ready to see you."

The Mayor sighed.

"I had hoped to speak with you at some length, Sir Morhault," he said regretfully, "but I suppose it's necessary for you to make your preparations, and Sir Feldon can best provide you with the precise details. Your squire, I gather, can show you to the room I've had prepared for you."

It was clearly a dismissal and Morhault took it that way. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of Mayor Barleth or his daughter, but part of that was probably due to the fact that he didn't know why he'd been sent to Tamur except in a very general way. Morhault hoped that Feldon could clear matters up for him.

-X X X-

"She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!" breathed Oren in the way of fifteen-year-old squires who have just laid eyes on an attractive lady. "Her hair was like spun gold in the firelight, her eyes like flawless black pearls, her skin like rose-tinted alabaster. She looked like a queen!"

"She should, Oren, since she's going to be one," Morhault noted dryly. It was, he felt, part of a knight's duty to keep his squire's bardic tendencies in line. Any adolescent prevented from spouting bad love poetry was a boon to all Lunar. "I must compliment you, though, on not comparing her eyes to sapphires. You only caught a glimpse of Marysann, but noticed that she was a dark-eyed blonde. It's always important to stay observant, both in combat and diplomacy." That, he felt, was enough pontificating for the moment.

A soft knock at the door interrupted the squire in his unpacking; Oren opened the inch-thick portal to reveal a man wearing the same red tunic over white shirt and breeches as he did.

"Ah, Feldon!" Morhault called, recognizing the elder knight by his bristling iron-gray moustache and short, square-cut hair. "Good to see you again." Noting how Sir Feldon was supporting himself on a pair of crutches and that his right leg was heavily splinted, Morhault added, "Diplomacy seems to be a bit more hazardous than I'd have expected."

Feldon laughed bitterly. "Fifteen years on the battlefield, another twenty at knight-errantry better suited to you pups, and the worst I ever got was this." He ran his thumb along the scar on his blunt chin, a souvenir of when a conscripted farmer wildly waving a sword had nearly split his head open. "So what do I do when I get a nice, cushy negotiating job? I go and fall off my Vile-spawned horse!"

"Well," Morhault said with a grin, "you do make for an odd sort of diplomat."

Morhault had joined the Lion Knights at thirteen, being accepted as a squire and serving like Oren was now before being tested and knighted at twenty. As Feldon had intimated, his knightly career had consisted of six years of knight-errantry: wandering Lunar in search of places where his services were needed. In other words, excepting the occasional mission for the order like this one, the kind of storybook-hero work that had led him as a boy to seek out the Lion Knights in the first place (although it was amazing how tales of heroes and Dragonmasters never mentioned the joys of sleeping outdoors, maintaining the health of horse and armor, travel rations, and weather that never saw Althena's smile.). It was the path to knighthood followed by most of the order.

Feldon, though, had begun as a mercenary soldier, first as a caravan guard and later a company lieutenant, until a campaign defending a village from Marius Zone bandits. The Lion Knights and Feldon's company had both fought with the defenders, and the lieutenant's cool head, personal skill, tactical competence, and sense of honor had caught the eye of several knights. Joining had been, as he put it, a good career move.

"Yeah, but that's what they needed here, someone who's been to war and knows what it's like--and who can see past all the baggage war brings with it." The injured knight dropped into a chair across the table from Morhault.

"Have a cup of mulled wine," Morhault offered. "You look as if you could use it."

"Thanks. I'm getting way too old for this; the cold knifes right through my joints."

Oren poured a flagon of the hot, spiced wine provided by the Mayor's servants and brought it to the ex-mercenary.

"I still don't see what we're doing here, Sir Feldon. I thought the Lion Knights didn't meddle in politics."

Feldon took a deep draft of his wine, then leaned back in his chair, allowing the warmth to seep into him. Despite the tapestries on the walls and the heavy brocade curtains covering the two small windows, the guest chamber had the persistent chill that came with stone construction.

"We were _asked_ to help."

The squire gave the two knights a completely blank look. Shamelessly ducking responsibility, Morhault gestured for Feldon to continue.

"All right, I'll start at the beginning. As you know, Tamur acts as a crossroads for trade here in the Stadius Zone. Tamur Pass links Lyton and Meryod to the west, the Madoria Plains to the north, and the Prairie to the south. Most significantly, it's the only connection between the Prairie Tribe and the rest of Lunar."

Feldon took another gulp of wine.

"Two years ago, the Prairie suffered a nasty drought. Everything suffered. There were near-famine conditions, they needed help _badly_, and their lack of resources meant they couldn't prepare their usual trade good. There were plenty of people and groups willing to offer charitable help, but Tamur really took it on the chin. Trade is the lifeblood of this place, it's much bigger than its available resources can support. If you get right down to it, rather than fish or farmland or herding or mining, Tamur's resource is being a waypoint for trade. The lack of Prairie trade hit it hard, and the goods going into the relief effort rather than the markets hit it again."

"This is really confusing, Sir Feldon."

"We're just getting started. Human nature being what it is, a fair number of people started blaming the Prairie Tribe for it, a feeling aggravated by that tribe's general reclusiveness and the acts of banditry carried out by its more aggressive clans. Then Meribian and Notan merchants threw themselves into the mix, trying to manipulate the situation and claim they didn't have to pay this or that deal should be restructured and generally trying to extort every last silver from other people's troubles. Then on the Prairie Tribe's side, they were already coping with the drought _and_ having to suffer the blow to their pride that comes with taking charity. Add to that the resentment and greed of the Tamurites--and the bigotry of their own hardliners who want to keep the Prairie isolated, since stupidity works on both sides, and you've got them in an uproar, too. Particularly since the Prairie Tribe sees trade contracts not as business deals but as honor-debts."

Morhault winced.

"I don't get it," said Oren.

"They execute thieves on the Prairie, boy."

"Execute!?"

"The Prairie Tribe is a small, isolated population with limited resources," Morhault explained. "On the Prairie, there are no beggars; each Clan takes care of its own, so there's no excuse that stealing is necessary the way it might be in Meribia, and conversely a thief steals from the entire Clan and their survival, so it's taken as a much more serious matter."

Oren thought that over.

"In any case," Feldon got back to the story, "they were at each other's throats. Hot words were shouted and skirmishes were breaking out in Tamur Pass and the Forest of Illusion. War seemed imminent. Cooler heads on both sides saw the direction things were going and wanted to head it off."

"I still don't see how the Lion Knights are involved."

"Well, _someone_ had to mediate," Morhault said.

Oren glanced at the older knight, ignoring his master's interjection.

"He's flippant, but he's right. The Tamur-folk and the Prairie Tribe don't really trust each other on a gut level--the cultures are too different, for one thing, and there's a history of raiding and border clashes between them that goes back even before the time of the Magic Emporer. I've been half afraid the whole time that someone would sneeze at the wrong moment and it would all go up in flames."

He took another drink of wine.

"Like you said, the Lion Knights don't get involved in scheming and plotting. We're an independent order that serves no ruler--and we're based way over in the Marius Zone, away from any of the isolated parties. That makes us _trustworthy_. We have no reason to side with anybody, and we have a reputation for honor and fairness across Lunar."

"The Lion Knights," Morhault finished for him, "could hammer out a treaty that was fair to both sides and would be accepted by each." He chuckled, then added, "I keep telling you, Oren, that there's more to knighthood than slaying monsters and rescuing fair maidens."

Oren groaned loudly. He was a farmer's son and had no interest in courtly games of diplomacy. The only part of this job he'd liked so far was the beautiful Marysann.

"So why are we here, Feldon?" Morhault asked. "Carrier birds may be fast, but they can't carry a very long message, not to mention that whatever it was you sent to the Grand Master, all _his_ message to the Lyton chapterhouse said was, 'Send a knight to Tamur.'"

Feldon's broken leg and Mayor Barleth's words had combined to give Morhault a fairly good idea of what was happening, but he was tired of guesswork.

"Carrier birds?" Now it was Feldon's turn to groan. "Typical, though I suppose it saved time over a messenger." He drained the last of the wine from his goblet. "You do know what we've been doing these past three months, don't you?"

"From the rumors that have been filtering back, arranging a marriage."

Feldon nodded.

"Right. Since the girl your squire is swooning over and the son of the chief of the Prairie Tribe are near in age and both unwed, the obvious answer was to marry them off to seal the deal."

"Um..." Oren interjected hesitantly, "if it's such an obvious solution, then why did it take so long?"

The former mercenary stroked his chin while giving the squire a black look. Oren, Morhault knew all too well, was prone to miss the subtleties.

"Details, boy, details! The status of existing trade contracts and consideration to be given to future ones. Travel rights in the Forest of Illusion. Tariffs on goods passing through Tamur Pass. The rights of an outsider wife and how it affects Prairie Tribe succession. Reparations to be made for raids on both sides. Not to mention the fact that there were any number of hotheaded, bigoted, or just greedy people on both sides who want to see the whole alliance as anathema and who need to be appeased or quashed!"

"Oh," Oren said in a very small voice.

"Sorry, boy. None of it's your fault, after all. It's just that, after all this work, and _finally_ getting a treaty settled that both sides will agree to..."

"You fell off your horse," Morhault finished for him, earning a glower.

"So now, someone else has to lead the lady's escort to the wedding."

"Escort?" Oren chirped on cue, then held up his hands to delay any remarks from the two knights. "Wait, I think I get this one. Those people you mentioned might try to head off the union by kidnapping or killing Marysann before she marries. If the escort is all from one side or another, their loyalties could lie anywhere, and a mixed group could start fighting each other because of a few loudmouths!"

Feldon slapped his hand against his thigh with a loud crack.

"Now you're getting it. The escort consists of fifteen soldiers from Tamur's cityguard, fifteen Prairie tribesmen, and ten from our forces, with a Lion Knight in overall command. That's you, Morhault, in case you haven't been taking notes."

The younger knight nodded, but he didn't smile. This escort was more than just an honor guard; the Mayor was _expecting_ trouble. There was some reason why the old fox thought Marysann would be in danger--and he hadn't told Morhault what it was. For that matter, Feldon hadn't gone into specifics, either.

He might not have known. Sir Feldon was the quintessential old warhorse, tough, brave, and smart, but his cunning was the cunning of a soldier on the battlefield rather than an experienced court intriguer. That was probably half the reason he had led the Lion Knights' mediation: to bull through the evasions and fancy language so they could get down to the meat of the problem. The Prairie Tribe would probably respect him all the more as a serious-minded warrior.

Then again, he might be holding back. Feldon wasn't subtle, true, but he wasn't stupid, either. Not by a long shot.

"When are we supposed to leave--and where do we go?"

"The wedding is in Pao. You'll be leaving tomorrow morning; we were _supposed_ to go four days ago, but my leg pretty well killed that plan."

Morhault rolled his eyes.

"To such duty we are called. I'm just glad that I hadn't planned on any sightseeing tours."

Oren, meanwhile, was smiling dreamily at the thought of spending several days on the road in Marysann's presence. Mayor Barleth's daughter made the perfect unattainable ideal for the squire's romantic dreams.

"Moon later, Oren; we have armor to polish. I have a feeling we're going to need it."


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning was one of those crisp, clear winter days when it was just overcast enough to keep the glare off the snow to a minimum and the air had a bite to it that made it seem particularly fresh. Even despite the odors of soldiers, horses, and steel, things seemed clean and pure, with the fresh layer of white covering everything. Smoke rose from the mansion's chimneys as the escort milled around restlessly and servants scurried to and fro across the courtyard on their morning work.

Morhault surveyed the force that he would command on the journey. The Tamur cityguards were typical of their kind: footsoldiers wearing sturdy leather armor and conical steel helms, some carrying heavy war axes and some spears, each also with a long dagger for close fighting. Their captain wore a long chain hauberk and carried broadsword and shield. The Prairie tribesmen were a colorful group, their hunting leathers trimmed with beads and feathers. Each one carried one of the lethal composite bows their tribe was known for, together with whip and knife. They were not mounted, though the Prairie Tribe was Lunar's finest light cavalry; Feldon had explained that since the Tamur guards were footmen the Prairie Tribe guards were unmounted as well.

Feldon's troops, on the other hand, were all mounted, carried swords, and wore red surcoats bearing the golden lion's head over their mail. Their shields were blank, though, to indicate that they were only armsmen and not knights.

Morhault shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, not accustomed to traveling in full armor. The escort was serious business, though, and demanded nothing less. Besides which, the knight felt better having as much steel as possible between himself and whatever threat Mayor Barleth feared. Not knowing where he stood always gave Morhault an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades.

A large closed carriage drawn by four horses sat in the center of the group of soldiers. Inside sat two maids and Marysann's elderly lady-in-waiting. It did not, however, contain the Mayor's daughter.

"Don't be a fool," Barleth snapped loudly as he and the girl emerged from the mansion. Marysann was wearing sturdy riding leathers and a wool cloak, and in all respects did not look like a girl who intended to travel in a carriage. "It's not save for you to ride to Pao."

"I'm _not_ going to be cooped up in a little wooden box!" she snapped right back. The thing that surprised Morhault was the girl's animation. Her eyes were flashing, and her dreamy abstraction of the night before was gone.

The Mayor turned to Morhault.

"You tell her!" he ordered. "Tell her that she has to ride in the carriage, Sir Morhault."

"Well," Morhault mused, "it would provide protection in case of an attack." The carriage was built of sturdy wood, with solid shutters that could be sealed in place over the windows, and was clearly built to offer security rather than impress the onlooker. "Arrows aren't likely to get through that."

The Mayor beamed, and Morhault could all but hear the "You see?" on his lips.

"On the other hand," the knight continued, "it could also turn into a deathtrap. It's slower than a horse, it can't cross rough terrain, and if one of the team is killed the occupants are trapped, and that doesn't even get into the question of fire magic. So, whether it's safer or not really ends up depending on the events of the battle and what we're attacked with."

"Which do you recommend, Sir Morhault?" the lady asked.

"I figure that if you're more comfortable on a horse, then get on a horse." He shrugged. "If I decide that you'd be safer in the carriage for some reason, though, then in you go. Your safety is the most important thing in the Stadius Zone just now."

"I see," she said quietly, and swung up into the saddle of a sturdy boy. Mayor Barleth's expression was black. Evidently, he was a man who did not like to be thwarted, be he right or wrong. Well, that wasn't Morhault's problem, or it wouldn't be once they left. Besides, placating Barleth would keep Feldon from getting _too_ bored.

Less than an hour out of Tamur, Marysann's spirited mood had drained away, leaving her distracted and pensive, as if she was barely aware of her surroundings.

"She looks almost tragic," Oren breathed.

"Please," Morhault groaned, "do try to keep your mind on the job at hand."

The first two days on the road passed without incident. On the morning of the third day, they reached the Forest of Illusion, and things became interesting. The Forest was an ancient woodland, with towering, thick-trunked trees and mist-choked pathways. It blocked the southern branch of Tamur Pass and served as a natural barricade to keep outsiders off the Prairie. Bandits and outlaws often haunted the northern fringes to prey on travelers, and there were worse things than robbers in the depths of the Forest of Illusion, things that all too often crept out of the hidden places to harass the surrounding countryside.

"Don't like the look of that, Sir Morhault," the bearded Tamur captain said, looking ahead.

The knight regarded the road onward, a beaten-down stretch of dirt that beneath the snow was marked by the ruts of hundreds of wagons and carriages. The road existed not by choice, but by necessity.

"We don't have any other option," he replied with a shrug. "I wish we could avoid it, but unless you know how to fly, we have to push on."

Five hours later, when the first arrow zipped out from between the skeletal forms of the trees, Morhault wondered if it might have been worth taking up a study in aeronautics.

"Shields!" he barked at once. As prearranged, four of the mounted guards immediately surrounded Marysann and put a wall of steel between her and the archers. Had the entire force been mounted, Morhault might have considered galloping through the ambush, but with a mixed group he'd have to fight. A retreat would only scatter the small company's strength and leave them brutally vulnerable.

Thankfully the attackers were equipped only with short hunting-bows; where a crossbow bolt would have punched through steel armor, the less powerful arrows only clattered off shields and mail for the most part. The footmen weren't as lucky; one wave of arrows raked them and left at least half dead or wounded. A mounted guardsman pitched out of his saddle, an arrow in his throat. Screams of pain filled the air, rousing the ambushers' bloodlust.

With howls of savage violence, the attackers poured from the trees on both sides of the road. The guards got into a rough defensive formation at Morhault's command, being able to see their enemies coming much more easily than they would had it not been winter. Morhault ripped his broadsword free of its scabbard and wheeled his horse to meet the charge.

The greater part of the attackers fell on the already wounded rearguard around the carriage. No arrows, thankfully, had come near Marysann, but the coach was bristling with them. It was an odd strategy--did the attackers not recognize the lady, or were they just bandits instead of politically motivated assassins? They certainly looked like bandits; their armor, for those few who had it, was rust-spotted and mismatched, and their weapons included everything from swords and axes to ball-and-chain morningstars, clubs, and farm tools. Only one had any kind of shield, a young man in woodsman's leathers carrying a sword who wore an odd built-up kind of gauntlet on his left forearm. They had the numbers, though; Morhault estimated that there were at least fifty fighters.

Once hand-to-hand combat had been joined, the defenders began to have an easier time of it. Outnumbered they were, but their edge in training and equipment showed. The mounted soldiers had the greatest advantage, and of them all Morhault was able to hew his way through the opposition with the greatest ease. It wasn't chivalrous, but this wasn't a time for chivalry and light infantry was no match for a mounted knight. Main force cleared the area around Morhault as he rained blows down on the heads of the ambushers.

The boy with the gauntlet spotted Morhault's effectiveness. A determined snarl on his face, he disengaged from the melee, snatched his bow from his back, nocked an arrow, and buried the shaft in the eye of Morhault's horse. The knight barely managed to throw himself clear of the saddle without being trapped under the collapsing horse; Morhault landed hard on his hip but managed to get back to his feet in time to block an axe-stroke from one of the bandits on his shield and riposte hard, ramming his sword into the man's chest.

"The knight's mine!" shouted the young man. The other ruffians were of no mind to disagree, flowing out of the way so the two men could engage one another.

Morhault quickly realized why this man, a fuzz-cheeked, strapping boy he judged to be no more than twenty, had chosen to take on the Lion Knight in single combat. He was good, very good with his sword, much better than most of the bandits who followed him. He had obviously been trained in swordcraft; his fighting style didn't have the holes in it that came with learning through battle. The weaknesses he did have were of the opposite kind, the ones of not having _enough_ experience.

_Unfortunately,_ Morhault noted, _he doesn't have many of that kind, either!_

One possible flaw was the shield. The boy's gauntlet was a steel armguard with raised edges to protect the wrist and elbow. It left the hand free, unlike a normal shield--that was it's advantage. Unfortunately, its design would make the arm suffer the shock of blows received more fully, in addition to covering a smaller area. Its wearer didn't seem to notice, blocking the heavy strokes of Morhault's broadsword directly as often as possible. The knight took the opportunity he saw to exploit the flaw in the boy's style and rained blows down on the shield. Rather than break down the boy's defense, and likely his arm, the battering attack had little effect. In fact, the gauntlet was holding up better than Morhault's own shield.

It had the whiff of magic about it, something Morhault wasn't fond of facing. He didn't hold it against the boy the way certain straightlaced knights might have; the Lion Knight himself would have fought with magical equipment if he owned any. In life-or-death warfare, you fought to _win_, not to show off. Morhault just didn't like it when that edge was with the other side.

There was no time to puzzle out the whys and wherefores, though. With one tactic ineffective, Morhault had to switch to another. Rather than try to beat his opponent's guard down, he'd have to slip past with skill.

A whirling series of attacks did just that. The boy was good, but he wasn't Morhault's equal. None of the wounds the knight inflicted were serious--a cut on the shoulder, a graze along the ribs, a nick to the thigh--but the injuries would add up, and the bleeding would weaken the bandit. The young man also scored a couple of such superficial hits--_it's a shame he's wasting his life skulking in the forest, assaulting travelers_--but the knight's armor did its job, deflecting the boy's weapon.

The bandit realized what was happening quickly enough and he began to gamble, extending himself in riskier maneuvers in the hope of getting in a solid blow, one that would cut through Morhault's plate and mail or seek out a weak point. The flaw in that strategy was that it left him vulnerable and exposed in return. His hope was that he'd get in a lucky shot before Morhault could take advantage of an opening, but the knight wasn't inclined to cooperate. Morhault seized his chance, deflecting the boy's sword aside and kicking the legs out from under his off-balance foe. He slammed his foot down on the young man's blade, pinning it to the ground, and put the tip of his own sword against his enemy's throat.

"Now, I'm guessing you're the leader of these merry men, so how about you surrender now and save them the trouble of picking a replacement?"

The young man gritted his teeth. Surrender--giving up--didn't suit him at all. Neither, though, did dying, and he didn't see a third option making itself available.

"It's over!" he shouted bitterly. "Put up your weapons!"

It took a few more cries from both he and Morhault to make sure everyone had heard, but eventually the bandits did as they were told and surrendered. The end of the fight obviously came as a relief to some, as more than two-thirds of their number were either dead or too badly wounded to continue.

_Not that our side is looking much better,_ Morhault thought grimly. Thanks especially to the initial archery, only four Tamur soldiers still stood, together with six tribesmen. Eight of the ten mounted guards from Ilan were still combat-ready as well, a testament to their training and equipment both. Lastly, Morhault spotted his squire, noting with a sigh of relief that Oren appeared to be as hale and hearty as ever.

As far as those he was supposed to be protecting, Morhault saw that Marysann was completely untouched and the carriage, while so studded with arrows that pincushion similes were inevitable, appeared basically intact and its inhabitants safe.

Morhault's gaze swept over the surviving ruffians.

"I don't have time to burden myself with prisoners, so leave your weapons behind, grab your wounded, and get out of here."

One of the Prairie warriors spoke up at once.

"Wait! These men are thieves. That is a hanging offense when practiced inside Prairie Tribe lands, which includes this forest."

Morhault sighed.

"Feel free. The rest of us have other problems, so catch up when you're through, all right?"

The tribesman's face twisted angrily, and he was going to say something, but another of the warriors stopped him.

"Enough! We have a more important duty than dealing with bandits. Over half their number have been appropriately punished in any case, and we have their leader."

The surviving attackers, meanwhile, hadn't waited around to see if Morhault would change his mind. In moments only their dead remained on the blood-spattered snow, except only for the boy.

"So now what," Morhault mused, "am I going to do with you? I may not have room to guard twenty-five prisoners, but one I can do, especially as you're the leader."

He kicked the boy's sword away, hauled him to his feet by the front of his tunic, and removed one dagger from the bandit's belt and another from his boot-top just in case he got any ideas.

"Oren, get me some rope. I think we'll want to keep this fellow well-secured." He regarded the young bandit leader curiously. "You've got 'disenfranchised aristocrat' written all over you. If this was a political attack, it was just about the most savagely bungled one I've yet seen, but on the other hand attacking a knight and a troop of soldiers isn't usual for generic banditry, either." With mock affability, he clapped the young man on the shoulder. "So how about telling me the whole story? Satisfying my curiosity might count as a good deed, and you need all of them you can rack up at this point considering your upcoming appointment with the hangman."

"Oh, Sir Morhault!" Marysann exclaimed, dismounting and dashing between her guards.

"Don't go near that killer, miss!" Oren cried, clutching at her arm. "You don't want to give him the chance to try something desperate!"

Marysann ignored the squire's advice and shook off his grip, racing over to the knight and the prisoner.

"Please, Sir Morhault. You can't take him to Pao with us," she pleaded. "They'll execute him."

"That was, I believe, the point."

The young man grinned ruefully and said, "I've made a proper mull of it this time, haven't I, Marys?"

Morhault glanced from one to the other and his heart sank.

"Why do I get the idea," he murmured, "that I'm not going to enjoy this? But, someone has to ask the questions, and since I'm nominally in charge of this little party, it had might as well be me. So, who are you, boy, and how do you know Marysann?"

Predictably, it was the lady who answered.

"His name is Tarrent, Sir Morhault. He's the son of a wine merchant and former city councillor."

"Also a _former_ wine merchant," Tarrent corrected bitterly. "Mayor Barleth confiscated Father's property last month for back taxes and city fines--at least, that was the excuse he used. Personally, I think it's because my father is an old firebrand who'd rather see Tamur burned to the ground than give an inch to what he calls 'those unwashed tent-dwellers.'"

"What a pleasant sentiment," Morhault said sarcastically. "May I assume that you share your father's opinions of this treaty?" he added, hoping against hope that politics would still turn out to be at the root of it all.

"Y-yes, but not for the same reasons! I just don't want to see Marys bartered off like a side of beef at the market, forced into a wedding against her will!"

The knight groaned inwardly. This was going just like he'd been afraid it would.

"So your plan was...?"

"I gathered a fighting force, some malcontents from my father's business plus bandits and the scum of the road. It was all I could afford to pay, but I hoped with numbers and surprise they'd be enough. We knew that Marys would be brought through the Forest of Illusion, so we planned to ambush them--well, you--and get her safely away."

"Safely away to where?"

Tarrent blushed; he was still young, after all.

"I'd intended to ask Marys to marry me, if she was willing," he admitted softly.

One glance at Marysann's shining black eyes was enough to tell Morhault that the intended bride was more than willing.

"That way she'd be safe; her father and the Prairie Tribe couldn't use her as a pawn again."

"At least not until they'd hunted the two of you down and executed you for treason, making her a widow and quite ready to marry again."

"Not if we leave Tamur. We may have been raised by wealthy families, but we're willing to live under any conditions if it's necessary to our happiness!"

This time Morhault's groan was out loud, and he stared helplessly at the sky. "I know I've seen this on the stage before. It positively reeks of bad Lytonese opera."

"I think it's romantic," Oren contributed. "The lady giving up her true love, sacrificing her happiness in an arranged marriage for the sake of peace."

_And so sensitive of you to point it out to their faces_, Morhault thought. Naivete was one thing, but sometimes he thought that kid acted like he was mentally defective. The look the Lion Knight leveled at his squire took years off the boy's life.

"If you have the time to babble, you have time to help the wounded." Predictably, Oren had come through the battle without a scratch. The old saw about Althena looking out for fools and drunkards came to mind, but it wasn't all due to the Goddess's grace that he'd come through alive; the squire was a skilled fighter as well.

"The Prairie Tribe will kill Tarrent, though!" Marysann protested, ignoring the interchange. "It's just as you said; he'll either be hung as a highwayman or as a political traitor. Please, Sir Morhault, you're a Lion Knight. Your duty is to protect me and you've done that. Tarrent isn't a political agitator trying to bring down the alliance; he's just a boy who had a dream of happiness."

"Well, under the circumstances, I can't see a pardon coming easily."

"Half the reason Father wanted an escort was to keep me from running off to be with Tarrent. I'm sure he expected a rescue attempt and hoped you'd kill Tarrent in the course of it." She was full of animation now, eyes flashing, face full of color. There was nothing about her to remind Morhault of the retiring, almost invisible young woman from the mansion.

"Convenient of him not to tell me that," he murmured. Morhault remembered the conversation he'd had with the Mayor, beginning to put a different interpretation on a few of the things Barleth had said.

Oren extended a coiled loop of stout cord.

"Here's the rope you wanted, Sir Morhault."

Morhault looked from one young face to the other. They were obviously in love. Too young, though, for marriage? Was it true love, the way the minstrels sang about it, or simple infatuation, or was it the lure of forbidden fruit on his part combined with the need for freedom on hers? Perhaps Althena knew, but Morhault couldn't judge.

"Sir Morhault, the rope?" Oren offered again.

The only thing the knight could know for certain was where his duty lay, what his honor would compel him to do. Only, honor was merely one of the virtues, and sometimes a man had to make a choice that flew in the face of honor. At least, that was what Morhault told himself.

"I won't need it, Oren."

He released the young man and shoved him a step back.

"Get going!" he ordered. "Get out of here before I change my mind."

"You're letting him go?" Oren asked as Marysann let out a squeal of pleasure.

"Oh, thank you, Sir Morhault! I know you shan't regret this."

"There's room for argument on that point. Now get going. Tarrent already has a head start on you."

The boy hadn't gotten far enough that he hadn't heard Morhault, and both he and the lady stared at him in astonishment.

"I thought I was being fairly clear. Both of you go, get out of here, get married, live happily ever after and all of that."

They just looked at him, stunned, their faces sharing that strange mix of joy and terror a child gets when given a treasured and much-wanted gift but still hasn't accepted that it was really and truly theirs.

"But, Sir Morhault!" Oren protested. "What about the treaty? What about our duty to escort Marysann to Pao?"

"Marysann doesn't want to go to Pao."

"But--"

"No 'buts,' Oren," Morhault ruthlessly cut his squire off. "And if you're so concerned about duty, then remember that escorting the lady is _my_ duty. _Yours_ is to obey my orders like a squire is supposed to."

The boy stared at him, indecision warring with obedience on his face. Morhault looked up at the sergeant of the mounted guards. The cityguards and the tribesmen weren't in a position to interfere, but the Lion Knights' armsmen were another matter. Pragmatically, if they saw their duty as taking Marysann to Pao they could do it, knight's orders or no knight's orders. The sergeant was a veteran fighter and she'd lost two soldiers in Tarrent's abortive rescue attempt.

She shrugged.

"You're the one who'll answer for it, Sir Morhault. I'll follow your orders, but I will report this to the proper authorities."

Morhault nodded.

"I wouldn't have it any other way. The Grand Master and a tribunal session will have the final say."

The snow had started again, large white flakes drifting lazily down from the sky. If it kept up, the blood and carnage would be covered up in only a few hours. That was the way of things; humans committed acts of savage brutality and nature just went on, unconcerned.

Morhault glanced over at the two young lovers.

"Shouldn't you two be making your escape about now? I might still regain my sanity at some point."

Marysann giggled. She couldn't help it; laughter was a release of tension. When she spoke, though, she was completely serious.

"Thank you, Sir Morhault; you are a true friend."

"I appreciate the sentiment. Too bad I'll need Althena's grace to get anyone to believe it."

There was one riderless horse still lingering in the area; Morhault caught it and began transferring his saddlebags from his own dead mount.

"Shouldn't you have me do that?" Oren asked, a trace of a sneer in his voice. Clearly the boy felt a knight should put duty above all other matters. Nor did his appreciation for beautiful romantic ideals, it seemed, extend to when that ideal chose to actually live for romance. These were views many would no doubt hold.

"You have your own duties," Morhault said. "You'll need to return to Tamur and make a full report to Sir Feldon."

"Why can't you do that?"

Morhault couldn't believe that Oren could ask the question.

"Under the law, I have a sworn duty to the Lion Knights of Ilan, I just broke my oath to them, and they have the right to punish me for it. I'm _not_ a subject of Tamur or the Prairie Tribe, so they'd have no legal grounds to accuse me of treason, and I've committed no other crime by aiding two people of legal age to marry as they please. The Mayor and the chief of the Prairie Tribe might have a claim against the Lion Knights for not carrying out the mediation as agreed, but not me personally." Then, he added sardonically, "I'm sure that being properly aware of the law, Mayor Barleth would be duly apologetic to the order, _after_ he scattered my ashes."

Oren shook his head in bewilderment.

"Sir Morhault, please stop," he pleaded sincerely. "You're throwing away everything--your knight's honor, your duty, the things that make you a Lion Knight, a hero. You're destroying an alliance that it's taken months of hard work to create!"

Morhault put a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up onto the horse.

"I can't turn back, Oren," he said. "I just can't pay that price."

No one said anything as the knight rode away. Morhault was left to the silence of the snow and his own thoughts; both were equally cold.


	3. Chapter 3

The key turned in the lock with a heavy clunk, and the iron-banded door swung open. Morhault looked up and saw, for the first time in a month, the gray-bearded ex-mercenary from Tamur. Sir Feldon was getting around with a cane, now; he must have been using a healer's aid to help the bone mend at an accelerated pace.

"You're looking good, Feldon."

"I'd say the same, but I'd be lying, even though you're still too blasted handsome."

"Prison life," Morhault replied with a shrug. The tower room, though spartan, was not a dungeon cell, but even without the window bars and the two guards outside it still would have been a prison. "I'd offer you something, but for some reason all I have is bread and water."

Feldon dropped into a chair and flexed his leg to work out some of the stiffness.

"Well, you really stepped in it this time, didn't you, Morhault."

"Bad news on the diplomatic front?" the younger knight asked dryly.

"You haven't heard?"

"I haven't really been getting out lately." Morhault waved a hand, indicating the ten-by-ten room.

Feldon grunted unsympathetically.

"You can probably guess, though. It all fell apart at once. It took about a week for the merchants of Tamur and the Prairie Tribe clan-chiefs to start seriously accusing each other of plotting the whole thing, and then everybody dug out all their old grievances and prejudices, so it degenerated until a formal declaration of war was issued."

"In the middle of winter?"

"When did a little weather ever interfere with a good, rousing political discussion? The snow is making them cautious, though, so the real bloodbath won't start until spring."

Feldon sighed heavily, and for the first time he looked to Morhault like he was carrying the weight of his years.

"Why did you do it, Morhault?" he asked. "Why did you let a couple of adolescent lovers run off together when you knew it would provoke a war?"

Morhault laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back against the wall.

"Sometimes I ask myself the same thing."

Feldon glared at him.

"Of _all_ people, _you'd_ better know."

"You've heard all the great, heroic stories about the deeds of the Lion Knights, haven't you?"

"Most of them."

"Me, too. In fact, they're why I joined the order as a boy. I admit it, just like Oren, I wanted to be a hero. Maybe I couldn't be a Dragonmaster, but a Lion Knight was the next-best thing. I wanted to rescue maidens and fight evil warlords and slay foul monsters." He smiled sardonically and said, "I don't remember any stories about Lion Knights forcing girls into marriages they don't want for the sake of political expediency."

"She had a duty to her family," Feldon said. "Just like you'd sworn oaths of loyalty to our order, solemn oaths that kicked aside just because you didn't feel like following them one day."

Morhault snapped upright, emotion flooding him.

"Yeah, maybe so--and maybe I saw two young people in front of me who deserved a chance at happiness. If the people of Tamur and the Prairie Tribe didn't want to be fighting a war, they'd have left their swords at home. Why should Tarrent and Marysann have to give up their love for the sake of people too stupid or too power-hungry to put aside feuds that are about nothing but pride and money?"

"It's not that simple."

"Maybe it should be."

Feldon grunted.

"That's a fair description of the Mayor you've given there, Morhault. I'll even grant you a fair chunk of the Tamur merchants and Prairie war-leaders to boot. It isn't just them who'll fight the war, though. The soldiers will be ordinary citizens and tribesmen, and they're the ones who will do the fighting and the dying. There'll be famine and disease--there always is with war. Fields trampled and burned, buildings demolished, herds slaughtered..._That's_ why we were there, Morhault. _That's_ why the Lion Knights cared. We could have headed it all off, stopped it before it started, but you decided not to."

"The ends don't justify the means, Feldon."

Leaning heavily on his cane, Feldon pushed himself back to his feet.

"Tell it to the dead, Morhault, tell it to the dead."

-X X X-

It was another week before Morhault was called into Lionhead's Tribunal Hall for the last time. The tribunal, consisting of the Grand Master in addition to four knights chosen by lot, had heard the testimony and the arguments, studied the law and tradition, and were ready at last to deliver their verdict.

"The penitent shall rise, that he may receive the judgment of the tribunal," intoned the knight acting as sergeant-at-arms, his voice booming out in the arched chamber.

Morhault rose from his seat to face the five knights who sat behind the great high table.

"Sir Morhault," the white-haired Grand Master, Sir Pellain, addressed him according to formula, "do you accept the authority and the judgment of this tribunal of your own free will?"

"I do."

"Then let the judgment be heard."

As the order of Lion Knights attempted to fill the role of the Dragonmaster, the Goddess Althena's champion, so did they take the model of their tribunal rules from the priesthood's canon courts. Each judgment was issued in two parts, the "judgment of the heart," which examined motive, and the "judgment of the body," which looked to the act itself. Pellain glanced down to the end of the table, and a slim, hawk-faced knight named Veras leaned forward to speak.

"Sir Morhault, having heard the testimony of all the witnesses before us, this tribunal finds that your actions stemmed from the dictates of conscience and not from malice, nor from a deliberate desire to bring harm to your charge or this order."

That was a relief, Morhault thought grimly. He had to admit, he'd been afraid the knights would be so incensed at his actions that they'd judge them to have been inherently incompatible with good conscience. One of the key points of the Lion Knights' code was that "one who acted within the dictates of his conscience" could not be executed.

Morhault still hadn't quite figured out why he'd come back to the Citadel of the Lion for judgment knowing that he might end up facing the headsman's axe. Lately, his decisions had been running like that.

Sir Veras leaned back, his part done, and the knight at the other end of the table, Damosel Anya, spoke the judgment of the body.

"Nevertheless," she stated, "despite your good intent, this tribunal finds that you have broken your oaths of fealty to the Order of Lion Knights, and that this violation was not done by accident in the throes of a crisis but willfully and with full knowledge of your act."

"The oath of a Lion Knight of Ilan is a sacred trust," declared one of the other knights, a man Morhault did not know by name. "The word of a knight should be broken only when fulfillment of the letter of the promise would be in direct violation of the spirit of that promise. It is that ethic which has brought this order its reputation throughout the world."

Sir Astad, the last of the knights on the tribunal and a master general who had led the campaign that had convinced Feldon to become a Lion Knight, took up the thread of the recital.

"When a knight is given a duty by his lord, it must be carried out, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter. It is the loyal bond between liege and vassal, vassal and liege, which preserves justice within the system. Without it only anarchy or despotism can result. A knight who refuses his duty is no knight at all."

"Therefore," the Grand Master said, rising to his feet, "it is the judgment of this tribunal that you, Morhault of Raculi, are named oathbreaker. As you have shown that you hold no respect for the duties and burdens of knighthood, so now do we strip you of its honors. Your rank of knight is revoked, and you are cast out from membership in this noble Order. From this day henceforth you are declared exile, upon pain of death, from the Citadel of the Lion and all chapterhouses, waystations, and other properties of the Lion Knights of Ilan. Such is the decision of this tribunal; let it be entered into the record and proclaimed to one and all."

Pellain nodded to the sergeant-at-arms, then resumed his seat. The officer of the tribunal clapped his hands twice, and two pages brought forth a large wooden stand which they set before the dais. A third page carried a shield. Like all those borne by knights of the order it was crimson and carried the golden head of a lion, but Morhault knew well that it was his own. The shield was fitted securely into the stand, and the sergeant-at-arms stepped forward. He raised his weapon, a heavy double-bitted axe, and struck. The massive blade cleaved the knightly shield in two.

Morhault winced as the two halves slipped from their places and clattered on the marble floor.

He'd expected this at the very least, had tried to imagine what it would be like, picture the event in his mind and steel himself to face it. None of it worked. The pain of being cast out, of seeing what he'd strived for ever since childhood symbolically destroyed before his eyes cut through him like a cold knife in his belly.

How was it, Morhault asked himself, that he could have thrown away his lifelong dream?

-X X X-

The whispers had taken less than a day to spread. The doings of the Lion Knights were always news for the people of Ilan, and a scandal such as this was a gossip's dream come true. Only four others had ever been cast out of the Paladins in their history, the last before Morhault had been born. The epithet "Morhault the Fallen" was on everyone's lips, and several different versions of the reason for his villainy had already sprung up. The story showed all the signs of developing into a popular folktale.

Oren hadn't even said goodbye. The boy's starry-eyed dedication to the knightly code had been repulsed by his master's actions. The dark glares he'd directed at Morhault during the tribunal sessions told the fallen knight that the shock and contempt Oren had started to show in the forest had hardened into an angry hatred for the man who'd betrayed the squire's beloved ideals--and his personal trust besides. They'd both be old men before that could be forgiven, if it ever could.

The sun was in Morhault's face as he rode past the edge of town. He wondered what the future held for him. Given his skills and his disgrace, he'd probably wind up a mercenary or wandering adventurer. It would be ironic if he found himself back in Tamur, a soldier in the war he'd helped start.

"Sir Morhault!"

The fallen knight turned at the sound of his name.

"Just 'Morhault' now, I'm afraid," he said, but then he realized who'd spoken. "What are the two of you doing here?"

It was, of course, Tarrent and Marysann. The girl looked better than she had as the princess; her pale complexion was turning bronze from the winter sun and the outdoor life seemed to have done her good. Most of all, though, she looked happy; there was nothing tragic or withdrawn about her any more, and her dark eyes sparkled with life. Tarrent, meanwhile, bore that joyous-but-bewildered look that marked most young bridegrooms.

"You rode right by us," Marysann accused. "You were so lost in thought I doubt you'd have seen a dragon land in front of you."

"Or a whole chorus of them," he agreed.

"We heard what happened," Tarrent said seriously. "We wanted to offer our thanks, and our regrets."

Morhault shrugged.

"I expected no less from the Lion Knights. The tribunal was fair, even generous to me."

"That doesn't change the fact that you've lost your rank, your position, and your reputation all because you helped us," the lady declared.

"So," her husband continued, "We wanted to show you our appreciation in a more concrete way. The Lion Knights stripped you of your shield, so it's only right that we replace it."

Tarrent held out his hand. In it was the gauntlet he'd worn during their battle.

"I know that it doesn't look like much, but it is enchanted," he said, confirming Morhault's guess. "It won't break, and it absorbs the shock of blows so your arm barely feels a thing."

The former knight reached out to accept the gift, then hesitated. A magical treasure like this was probably an heirloom of Tarrent's family, and really belonged with them.

"Please take it," Marysann urged. "We owe you everything; at least let us do this for you."

Morhault's hand closed around the gift.

"Thank you. It's good to know that there are at least two people who support me." He slid his fingertips over the engraved steel surface. "I'll use this," he decided, "for so long as I still believe that I made the right choice."

He wondered whether ten years from then he would look on the gauntlet as a sign of faith, or of past folly.

More importantly, Morhault thought, what would Tarrent and Marysann think of him?


End file.
